“Why should he? The river is rising again, he dursn’t let himself be cut off away from his camp, he don’t know of any particular reason for coming here. He won’t come. He’ll turn back and make for Qadirabad—you’ll see.”
“I won’t, then! I believe the General will come in time and save us. Y’ought be ashamed of yourself for trying to make me unhappy about it. I tell y’ I won’t be miserable—there!” But whether, when she was again comparatively alone, Eveleen was quite as valiantly positive as she professed to be, Ketty could have told.
Three days later the blow fell—just the reverse of the last one. The town rang with rejoicings and blazed with lights. From the zenana came presents of fruit and sweetmeats, jewels and rich garments, with a special message from the Khanum herself: “The mother of his Highness send thanks and greetings to the Farangi lady, who had brought blessing when to blind eyes she seemed to be bringing a curse.”
It was some time before a diligent quest for information on Ketty’s part made this cryptic message clear. The reason for the general rejoicing was soon discovered. The Bahadar Jang was sick unto death. All his people stricken about the same time were dead already, and he must soon follow. Depression and disintegration had already set in among his forces, as was shown by the conduct of the body of troops detached to cut off the Khan from Umarganj. It had halted for no reason, and remained passive, and Kamal-ud-din had passed it safely, and would arrive in an hour or two. This was the news as it was communicated to the public, but to one or two cronies of his own the messenger had imparted the further tale of young Jamal-ud-din’s dishonour—his offer to assassinate his brother to win favour with his captor,—and this it was that had moved the gratitude of the Khanum. Now they knew where they were, she said, and her son could guard himself in future. The capture of the boy, which had seemed such a disaster, was a blessing in disguise, since it had revealed him in his true colours. And to this she adhered, though Jamal-ud-din’s mother stormed and raved and tore her hair as she vowed that the treachery must have been suggested by the enemy, and that her son had feigned to assent to it only through fear of death.
Eveleen cared nothing for Jamal-ud-din and his mother and step-mother. The news of the General’s illness—perhaps death—and Kamal-ud-din’s return came upon her like a thunderbolt, in nowise lightened by the knowledge that both events were in all good faith ascribed to her favourable influence. At last she had tried hard enough—and behold the result! They would never let her go now that she had so signally proved her value to them. She had signed Richard’s death-warrant as surely as though she had set her hand to paper, for though they might contemptuously decline to take his life, how could he live on in this state without her tendance? She might escape dishonour herself, thanks to the little dagger, but how could she save him?
She sprang up wildly at last, and meeting the surprised glance of Ketty, who had been hugging herself in the complacency natural to the bearer of appalling tidings, bade her harshly to go out—make enquiries—bring more news. Ketty was nothing loath. The present popularity of her mistress shed its lustre over her, and she knew she would be a welcome guest among the wives of the soldiers in the courtyard. Out she went, and Eveleen, who had stood rigid with her hand to her heart, crossed the room again and sank on her knees beside her husband. Pride was gone now.
“O God,” she sobbed, “it was my fault—all my fault. But that’s the very reason I need Thy help. I can do nothing, I deserve nothing. I have ruined myself, but not him——O God, not him! Let him be saved—whatever happens to me—whatever—whatever.”
Exhausted by the vehemence of her entreaty, she knelt in silence, panting painfully. Then her outstretched hands touched one of Richard’s, clasped it and let it go, and then in the semi-darkness she passed them gently over his face—as though for the last time.
“So often I have said I’d die for him, and now I have killed him!” The words were forced from her, and she broke into a low hopeless sobbing, with her head on his breast. Was it fancy—madness—or did she really hear his voice close to her ear, speaking dreamily and as though he was but half awake?
“What is it? My dear, don’t, pray don’t!”